


The Plan

by emetsketeers



Series: puke with a side of H/C [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Emetophilia, Multi, puke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-12
Updated: 2015-11-12
Packaged: 2018-05-01 08:33:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5199236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emetsketeers/pseuds/emetsketeers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>D'Artagnan's in need of a little attention, and comes up with a questionable plan to get it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Plan

**Author's Note:**

> thunderkit commented on one of my other stories, "I'd love to see d'Artagnan faking sick to get attention and comfort from the other Musketeers (with d'Artagnan making himself vomit, of course)!" Well... how could I resist?
> 
> Ooh, I like prompts. Send more.

It had all started last week, when Aramis was sick.

No, it had probably all started the week before that, when he and Constance had broken up (again).

Actually no, fuck it, it had probably started the day he was born, because that was the day he came out a fuck-up. And being a fuck-up he could not handle things like breakups and also could not ask for any sort of comfort that might make it easier for him to handle, and because of that he’d pretty nearly cried last week when Aramis was sick and Porthos had taken off two days from work to sit with him on the couch and hold him and shush him, and fuck if that wasn’t exactly what d’Artagnan needed.

He may or may not have tried to drink from every cup Aramis put in the sink, on the off-chance of catching the bug and earning even just a fraction of that affection.

Jesus, what was so hard to understand about the fact that he needed a hug… and needed it to last approximately three hours, at a bare minimum?

And why was it so hard to ask for?

Oh right, because he was a twenty-four year old man in a society that eschewed masculine emotion… and also he was a fuck-up.

And so everything that started culminated like this: Saturday morning, watching tele with Aramis and Porthos on the sofa, and d’Artagnan curled up on the floor and groaned loudly.

It took a repeat performance before anyone even blinked. Then Aramis kicked him lightly. “Are you alive down there?”

“Maybe,” d’Artagnan pouted. “I don’t feel well.”

“Whiskey’s on top of the fridge,” Porthos remarked. A shot of whiskey cured everything in Porthos’ book, colds and flus and broken hearts, and d’Artagnan wondered what it might be like to live in the head of someone who wasn’t a fuck-up.

“I hate whiskey,” he said, pouting louder now. “I think my stomach hurts.”

“You _think_ your stomach hurts?”

“If you had what I had, you’d _know_ that your stomach hurt,” Aramis put in.

D’Artagnan groaned and wrapped his arms tighter around himself, which was effective because it made him look like he had a stomachache when in reality he was imagining what it would feel like to fetch a hot water bottle and crawl into bed (with Constance) and cuddle for the rest of the day. All he wanted was a little attention, and all he’d gotten was an offer for a shot of whiskey.

Well, actually…

He hadn’t used that trick in many years, and as a child of course he’d done it not for attention but to get out of school (and had only gotten away with it twice before his father had caught on and smacked some sense into him). But desperate times called for what they called for, after all.

D’Artagnan pushed himself to his feet. “’m going for a walk,” he announced, crossly, stuffed his feet in his shoes and left. He wandered a few blocks to the nearest corner store, where he bought a large tub of chocolate pudding, four apples, two hot dogs, and a half gallon of whole milk. Then he went to the nearest park and found a bench. It was a weird sensation, swinging the food in the bag, knowing what was going to happen with all of it in the end.

Trying to look like an average guy just enjoying a large lunch, d’Artagnan began to eat. In fact he’d had lunch already, and had been pretty satisfied by it; still the pudding was a nice dessert. The apples, though, got progressively harder to enjoy, and by the time he was up to the hot dogs he felt bloated and a little stupid. Still he persisted. He chugged half the milk (he hated milk almost as much as he hated whiskey, but the milk challenge existed for a reason, after all) then began to walk back home.

The walk was a long one. He felt shivery and queasy, and though he knew that some people, some of his friends among them, kind of enjoyed the feeling of nausea, he himself did not.

If it worked, though, it would be worth it.

He finished off the milk at the beginning of his street and chucked the empty bottle into a neighbor’s rubbish to hide the evidence. By now he’d burped up some of the icy beverage a few times, but nothing else was happening. For that, he’d need one more ingredient in his brewing stomach soup.

“You don’t look so good,” Porthos commented, when he shuffled through the front door.

“I told you I don’t feel well.”

“C’mon. Whiskey. I’ll do a shot with you.”

D’Artagnan faked begrudgment as he nodded; this, in fact, was everything he’d wanted it to be. Porthos led him into the kitchen and poured two shots, holding one out to him. That was all he got out. Porthos did not believe in chasers.

“To your health,” Porthos toasted, and threw his shot back. D’Artagnan did the same.

The whiskey burned his throat and curdled immediately in his stomach. The taste was awful. It had been his intention to run off dramatically to the toilet… instead, hit with a sudden wave of clenching nausea, he whirled around and heaved up a massive gush of vomit right then and there into the kitchen sink.

“Shit,” Porthos commented.

The sound of it brought Aramis to the kitchen… at least d’Artagnan assumed it was Aramis, but he couldn’t really look back to check. The first wave of puke had done nothing but make him feel sicker. It was a chunky, lukewarm, pale brown wave of curdled milk and apple chunks that tasted worse than the whiskey had. The pressure in his guts was enormous. He pushed a hand against his stomach and prayed for this next heave to bring relief.

He threw up again. The bottom of the sink was splattered with multicolored bits of apple and hot dog, swirls of chocolate pudding, and covering it all, milk.

“Fucking, ‘take a shot of whiskey’,” Aramis sighed. “That’s for congestion, not stomach bugs, idiot.” Then, to d’Artagnan: “I know it sucks, mate, but it doesn’t last long. Gonna sick up again?”

D’Artagnan nodded, and then did, with a great hoarking sound and another wave of the foul-smelling puke. His knees were shaking now, and he had no choice but to let go of his heaving stomach and latch onto the counter for support.

An arm brushed up next to him, as Porthos reached over and turned on the tap, washing the puke down the drain. Then there came the sound of a ripping paper towel. Aramis pressed it into his hand and clumsily he wiped his mouth with it.

“’ve still gotta thr’w up,” he whimpered, because he did, and pretty badly too.

And then: Aramis’ hand, coming to rest at the small of his back.

“It’s okay, love. Don’t even try to run for the toilet; you’ll never make it. Hey, don’t be embarrassed; this is right where I was five days ago.”

“Okay,” d’Artagnan sobbed, honing in on the feeling of warm fingers through the fabric of his t-shirt. He leaned forward over the sink and let himself heave again. Nothing was coming. But _Christ_ there had to be at least a little more left, at least it felt that way, so d’Artagnan uncurled one hand from the sink and, bracing himself, slipped a finger down his throat.

The effect was instantaneous, and explosive, rending him forward over the sink with another gush of partially digested lunch; the force of this pushed his stomach into the edge of the counter, which caused him to vomit yet again. He hadn’t quite pulled his hand back in time, though, and a bit of warm, drippy puke splashed over his fingers. He held out his shaky hand to rinse it off in the running tap.

“Jesus,” Aramis murmured. “I’m sorry, d’Artagnan. It’s what I had for sure. You’ll feel better once you’ve emptied yourself out.”

D’Artagnan could only nod as he hocked up a glob of pukey phlegm. The action of his caused his already-running nose to stream even faster, and he accepted another paper towel to blow his it. The fluid that came out was full of milky chunks, and the scent of it was enough to send him heaving again.

“Ohhhkay,” Aramis soothed, “Try to steady your breathing, love. The worst is over.”

D’Artagnan shook his head, gagging almost desperately now, bringing up sour chunks and spurts of bile that made him cough harshly. Aramis’ hand moved, came around to the front and pressed against his stomach…

And one last massive wave erupted, splashing up the sides of the sink, nothing at this point but a fetid mixture of whole milk and stomach acid.

“You’re finished. You’re finished,” Aramis was whispering.

D’Artagnan nodded, and took a clumsy step back from the sink… only to sag into Porthos’ arms, as his knees gave way beneath him. Porthos lowered him gently to the tile floor. Trembling, freezing cold now, d’Artagnan leaned up against Porthos’ legs and panted for air. Porthos laid a hand on the top of his head.

Aramis sank down beside him, and then warm fingers tested the temperature of his forehead. “No fever,” Aramis remarked. “That’s good.”

“’m sorry,” d’Artagnan blurted out, because he was pretty sorry by now; this was ten times more dramatic than he’d envisioned. His goal had been to burp up one or two good splashes into the toilet, just to convince them that he was really not well; instead the pool of puke in the sink would probably have been two inches deep if Porthos hadn’t started washing it away, and he’d gotten splatters on the counter, the tap, and possibly the entire universe as well. Maybe the second hot dog had been overkill.

“Hey. Don’t you remember how many little brothers I’ve got?” Aramis asked. “You’re only one of ‘em. Seen plenty of sick in my day. Even before uni,” he teased.

D’Artagnan nodded, feeling a little better about it but still alarmingly close to crying now. His stomach still hurt terribly, and now so did his throat.

Aramis accepted a wet paper towel from Porthos on his behalf. “Clean yourself up,” Aramis said, softly, handing it to him. “Do you feel like you’re finished?”

D’Artagnan nodded.

“Do you feel like you’re going to have diarrhea?”

D’Artagnan shook his head.

“Okay, good. Do you want to go brush your teeth now?”

D’Artagnan nodded, and let Porthos help him to his feet. They didn’t follow him, which was a little disappointing, but when he’d finished washing his face, brushing his teeth, and changing his shirt, he came back out to the living room to find Porthos had moved off of the sofa, and Aramis had squished to one side of it.

“I don’t know if you want to go bed or sit with us,” Aramis said, “but we made you some peppermint tea.” He patted the empty space near him, and when d’Artagnan settled down there, placed a warm mug in his hands. D’Artagnan closed his eyes and breathed in the scent, which began to soothe his stomach before he’d even taken a sip. When he opened his eyes Porthos was shaking his head, laughing a little, but he didn’t care. He noticed now that there was an empty bucket at Aramis’ feet; Porthos could laugh all he wanted as long as he and Aramis kept taking such good care of him. He took a few sips of tea, then set the mug down.

“I’m sorry I got you sick,” Aramis sighed. “Figures. I sleep in the same damn bed as _him_ and _he’s_ fine.”

“It’s okay. If you really feel bad about it then let me put my head in your lap and I’ll forgive you.”

“Deal,” Aramis chuckled, and placed a pillow in his lap; near tears again, but happy tears this time, d’Artagnan curled up with his head on the pillow. Aramis fingers promptly weaved into his hair.

“We made a list of movies to watch while I was sick,” Aramis reported, “and we didn’t finish. Want to watch one?”

D’Artagnan nodded.

“Porthos, hand me that… thanks,” Aramis said, and in the next moment d’Artagnan felt a blanket being spread out over his body. It reminded him how cold he was, and he shivered. Aramis’ fingers went right back into his hair.

Porthos started the movie, but before d’Artagnan could even register which movie it was he was already drifting to sleep. Puking had sucked, his stomach still felt kind of tender even after the tea, and he was pretty sure he couldn’t eat apples (or hot dogs, or chocolate pudding, or milk) for a long time to come, but any plan that ended with him on the sofa getting his head stroked had to be a successful one.

“You’ll be better by Monday,” Aramis assured him. “Bet you won’t even miss work.”

“Shush,” Porthos hushed, “he’s asleep. Let him rest.”

And so d’Artagnan curled up a little closer to Aramis’ leg, and let himself do just that.

(And if he woke up halfway through the movie, claimed to be nauseous again, and dramatically dry-heaved a few times over the bucket so that Porthos scurried off for fresh tea and Aramis rubbed his back a while… well. Why not?)

**Author's Note:**

> Stop being shy, we all know you love it. Comment/kudos away ;)


End file.
